The Spurs of Iron Eyes (Iron Eyes Western #3)

by Rory Black

  ‘I don’t want trouble.’

  ‘I ain’t gonna start none, but if some fool makes a play, I’ll finish it,’ Iron Eyes warned the sheriff.

  Bass replaced his hat upon his head and began nodding, as he took the door handle in his sweating hand.

  ‘Good enough. Good enough.’

  Iron Eyes watched as the door closed before blowing a line of smoke at the ceiling. Swinging his mule-eared boots back onto the floor, the tall gaunt man stood and grabbed his coat off its hook before sliding his pitifully thin arms down the sleeves. Leaning over, he plucked the Navy Colts off the blanket and pushed them into his belt.

  He was going for a walk around Rio Vista.

  If there was some foolhardy soul out there, he wanted to meet him. For the first time in seven months he felt his sap rising.

  The heat bore down upon Iron Eyes as he strolled across the wide street from the hotel towards the largest of the saloons he had noticed upon his arrival a couple of hours earlier. Being watched was nothing new; he could sense eyes tracking him wherever he went, burning, inquisitive eyes. Few men carried a heavy saddle-bag over their shoulder in the blinding heat which baked this small border town. Even fewer men had the ivory grips of two Navy Colts ominously protruding from their belt. Yet, as he reached the porch overhang outside the saloon, there was no living person about to question him. Pushing the swing doors apart, the large room suddenly went silent.

  Iron Eyes stepped into the cool building and studied the faces of the two dozen men and women whose attention was fixed upon his every movement.

  Walking silently to the long bar he felt uneasy as the men drifted away from him, dragging their drinks across its damp surface. One of the pair of bartenders closest to him stepped forward and gulped.

  ‘What’ll it be, stranger?’

  Iron Eyes silently placed a handful of silver dollars onto the top of the bar and indicated a bottle of whiskey bearing a colorful label amid the various home-made rotgut preparations.

  ‘This is too much,’ the bartender announced.

  ‘Fill a few glasses.’ Iron Eyes cast a look at the terrified gathering before turning with the bottle and a crystal shot glass in his hand and walking to a dark corner.

  The room remained silent until the bartender counted the coins and shouted at his customers, ‘The drinks are on the stranger, folks.’

  Suddenly the saloon began to rekindle its former confidence. Iron Eyes watched as the people moved to the bar to collect their free drinks. Pulling the cork from the bottle neck with his small sharp teeth, he poured himself a glass of the amber liquor observing the people through his limp, black hair which dangled before his face.

  Sipping at the whiskey, Iron Eyes missed nothing within the four walls of this place.

  There were six females amongst the crowd, each looking as if they had seen better days. Two Mexicans wearing droopy sombreros wrestled in the far corner over what remained of a bottle of tequila. The remaining patrons were Texan men of various ages and appearance. The majority looked harmless, but two seemed worth keeping an eye on. Well-heeled with polished leather gun belts and gleaming gun grips these men drew his attention. He had seen their like before too many times in too many towns.

  Iron Eyes knew these two men might just be well-scrubbed cowboys out on the prowl for the soft bosoms and thighs of a female who had her price, but his well-honed instincts told him to be wary.

  The pair finished their free drinks and then purchased a few more before turning to face the seated figure in the shadowy corner.

  Their interest in him made the bounty hunter realize he was correct in his assumption they were not cowboys. Even the average cow hand had brains enough to steer well clear of a man like him.

  Then the swing doors parted and the portly Sheriff Bass walked in carrying a twin-barreled shotgun in the crook of his arm. The two men glanced across at the lawman and then turned to face the bartenders once more.

  Iron Eyes sat upright in his chair and watched as the sheriff ambled over to his table.

  ‘Bass.’

  ‘What you doing here?’ Bass asked angrily.

  ‘Drinking.’

  Bass stared down at the fat leather saddlebags and then back at the gaunt stranger.

  ‘You leaving?’

  ‘Nope,’ replied Iron Eyes.

  ‘Why you got your trail gear with you then?’

  ‘I ain’t. This is my bank roll.’

  The sheriff jabbed the saddlebags with the barrel of his weapon and heard the distinctive sound of metal coins. Looking into the scarred face he seemed confused.

  ‘Ain’t you heard of paper money, boy?’

  ‘Yep. I don’t like it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It burns and it rots. Silver and gold don’t even rust,’ Iron Eyes grunted, as he cast an eye across at the two men who were watching and listening with far too much interest.

  Bass sat down next to the bounty hunter and sighed.

  ‘I told you, I don’t want no trouble in my town.’

  Iron Eyes took a deep inhalation of air as he watched the pair of very clean men moving away from the bar and strolling out of the saloon.

  ‘Who are those two varmints?’

  Bass looked over his shoulder at the swing doors which told him the men had gone.

  They ain’t from around here.’

  ‘How long have they been in Rio Vista?’

  They rode in an hour after you.’

  Iron Eyes nodded. They ain’t cowboys.’

  ‘Then what? Outlaws?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Iron Eyes pushed the tall bottle towards the sheriff and thought about their faces which seemed to be carved into his distant memory, faces he had once seen on a wanted poster.

  Chapter Three

  Rio Vista could have been any other Texas border town when the sun finally decided to set. Cowboys and vaqueros seemed to arrive from invisible hideaways and fill the long street and various saloons as the lamps were being lit along its single dry thoroughfare. From the security of his room, Iron Eyes watched the slow interesting change in the atmosphere below with singular curiosity. The small town now glowed eerily as the street lights began to spill their illumination over its simple configuration. Horses tied to hitching rails filled the street opposite the hotel as they waited for their masters. Piano playing echoed about the otherwise quiet street as the tall bounty hunter plucked his coat off its hook once more. Placing each mule-ear boot on the seat of the hard chair in turn, Iron Eyes tied on his savage spurs and glared through the small window panes. Although he had no intention of riding this night, he still wore his spurs. There had been times when their lethally sharp prongs had ripped the flesh from his enemies’ bones. Iron Eyes knew only too well that during hand-to-hand combat, that inflicting a split second of agony allowed him to draw and fire both his Navy Colts.

  Straightening up and stomping on both boots on the bare boards, Iron Eyes gritted his teeth before picking up the hefty saddlebags and tossing them over his shoulder.

  Stepping out of his room and locking the door behind him, he pulled another long, thin cigar from his pocket and placed it between his teeth. Striking a match along the whitewashed landing wall, he made his way to the top of the staircase, sucking on the lit cigar and blowing out a long line of smoke.

  It was a watchful Iron Eyes who ventured out slowly from the hotel with the heavy saddlebags still hanging over his right shoulder.

  The swollen leather bulging with silver dollars weighed massively but it did not show on the lank frame of Iron Eyes. He seemed unable or unwilling to leave the fortune out of his sight for even a few moments. As smoke drifted from his narrow mouth, he walked along the street towards the building which towered over all the others in Rio Vista.

  Moving along the boardwalks, using the shadows as a shield, he seemed unable to take his attention off the large chapel for more than a few seconds at a time. It was unlike Iron Eyes to be drawn to anything, but this building att
racted his interest even whilst bathed in moonlight and glowing torches. The sound of laughter flowed out of the saloons opposite him as he made his way down the long street.

  Before the troubled man had realized it, he was standing below the colorfully tiled steps leading to the large carved wooden double doors. A pair of flickering torches set to either side of the steps seemed to draw him like a moth between their flames.

  Turning the large ring handle, Iron Eyes allowed the door to open as he stood gazing inside. He had never set foot into any place where a hundred candles burned upon an altar graced by a solid gold crucifix before. When he slowly proceeded within the chapel, the smell of incense filled his nostrils and made him feel uneasy. The weight of the heavy burden upon his shoulder began to tax his mind as he stared up at the beautifully carved figure attached to the golden cross. Iron Eyes stared at the crucifix as the candle flames licked its image and wondered who it was or what it meant.

  ‘You seem confused, my son.’ A voice flavored with the charms of Mexico came from the shadows to his right.

  Iron Eyes turned his head and studied the man moving towards him wearing brown robes tied by a single cord around his middle.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The priest moved before the altar and dropped onto one knee and crossed himself quickly before reaching the side of the tall stranger.

  ‘Have you never been .inside the house of the Lord before, my son?’

  Iron Eyes stared down at the face of the man.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Why are you here now?’ the smaller man asked.

  ‘Ain’t too sure,’ Iron Eyes responded honestly, as he stepped closer to the altar and the candles.

  ‘Are you worried about something?’ the priest enquired, in a tone Iron Eyes had seldom heard aimed in his direction.

  Iron Eyes gritted his teeth and sucked on the cigar thoughtfully. ‘I just came in to take me a look, that’s all.’

  The priest followed Iron Eyes as he headed back to the door down the centre aisle. With each step, the tall man glanced over his shoulder at the sight which confused him.

  ‘You asked me my name.’

  ‘I did,’ Iron Eyes stopped and turned to look down at the face of his pursuer.

  ‘I am Father Jose.’ The priest looked at Iron Eyes’ face, then down to his spurred boots and back again. There seemed to be no judgment in the man’s eyes, no sign of distaste in either his appearance or his looks. Father Jose simply accepted what was before him.

  ‘Father Jose?’ Iron Eyes gazed back at the altar again and rubbed his chin.

  ‘What is troubling you, my friend?’

  ‘Who is the hombre on the cross? He looks in a bad way.’

  ‘Have you never seen Jesus before, my son?’ The priest could hardly believe anyone could have lived so long without ever coming into contact with even the most basic knowledge of the Bible.

  ‘Nope. Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him before. Looks a tad on the thin side to be nailed up like that.’ Iron Eyes could not understand why someone would torture a person rather than simply kill quickly as he had always done. ‘Indians do it?’

  Father Jose smiled. ‘It was long ago in a far off land. He died to save us. I do not think Indians were around in those parts.’

  ‘Looks like something the Apache might do, given half a chance.’ Iron Eyes shrugged. ‘I don’t put nothing past an Apache when he’s liquored up.’

  ‘Do you wish to stay and talk, my friend?’ The priest tried vainly to make eye contact with the tall bounty hunter.

  ‘Nope,’ Iron Eyes grunted.

  ‘If you do, I am here.’

  Iron Eyes sighed as he walked out of the chapel and paused upon the top of the steps whilst staring along the busy street of Rio Vista. Turning he saw the priest moving beside him once again.

  ‘What is your name, my son?’

  They call me Iron Eyes, Jose.’

  ‘I think I have heard of you.’ There was no sign in the man’s voice he had ever heard anything either good or bad about the bounty hunter.

  ‘Figures.’ Iron Eyes adjusted the heavy bags on his shoulder as he stared out into the street.

  ‘What brought you to the chapel of Rio Vista, Iron Eyes?’ Father Jose tried for the final time to get the thin man to look directly at him. This time, just for the briefest of moments, their eyes met and both men glimpsed each other’s soul.

  ‘I ain’t figured what brought me to Rio Vista yet, Father Joe,’ Iron Eyes admitted. ‘I reckon something did though.’

  The priest watched as the tall man with the flowing hair walked slowly down the tiled steps and strode forcefully towards the illuminated buildings opposite the chapel. This time Iron Eyes aimed his pointed toecaps in the direction of the saloons. With each stride of his long painfully thin legs, the sound of his razor-sharp spurs seemed to ring on the cool evening air.

  It was a haunting sound.

  Chapter Four

  Reluctantly, Iron Eyes walked away from the chapel as if he were turning his back on something far more important than he dared consider. His spurs seemed to echo around the street as he slowly aimed his boots down the long uneven boardwalks past the fronts of whitewashed buildings bathed in moonlight and flickering orange oil lamps. Hesitating outside the sheriff’s office, he stared at the drawn shade through the glass window. Looking up at the small pair of windows above the office doorway, he wondered if the lawman had finally retired for the night, or was he one of those rare sheriffs who roamed around his town never hindered by weariness, always ready to prevent trouble at any costs? Iron Eyes moved his head slightly to one side and stared at the chapel and the lone figure upon the steps.

  Like Bass, Father Jose troubled the bounty hunter too. A chill seemed to race up his long bony spine as he watched the man moving back inside the building.

  Iron Eyes suddenly heard the sound of laughter over his shoulder and turned to face the line of buildings ahead of him. The smell of saloons drifted out and onto the street along with their wasted light. As Iron Eyes continued his slow deliberate walk his keen eyes studied the shadows of people moving in the yellow lights which traced across the wide dry street from the different saloons.

  The first saloon Iron Eyes had entered was crammed full of cowboys all drinking and playing as hard as their monthly wages would allow. The smell of cattle seemed to fill the air, as he moved to the bar and ordered a single shot of rye. Why he was studying these people was a mystery even to Iron Eyes himself, but study them he did. Within the time it took for the hand to navigate the face of the clock behind the bar, he had seen all he wanted. Whatever it was burning a hole inside his troubled soul, Iron Eyes did not see it here. There were no answers in this drinking hole, only cowboys wearing the scent of manure and the aroma of stale alcohol. Swallowing his drink in one swift mouthful, he returned to the boardwalk and listened to a pitiful piano ringing in the air from up the street.

  It took some twenty-eight steps to reach the entrance of the second saloon. Pausing to look over the bleached swing doors, Iron Eyes sucked his cigar down to its last inch before spitting it out. A haze of smoke hung in the air, only moving as cowboys and a few vaqueros cut through it as they staggered from keno tables to the bar. There was nothing of interest here either to the troubled, ghost-like, man.

  Iron Eyes turned away and began heading towards the saloon he had visited earlier that day when the sun had tortured the men and women foolish enough to be out at that hour. Of the trio, this was by far the cleanest and obviously most profitable of the saloons. Even the sawdust had seemed cleaner.

  Once more he found himself pausing by the doorway and staring at the familiar room. Now filled to overflowing, it seemed to have taken on an entirely different character. It buzzed like an angry hornet trying to find its hive.

  Iron Eyes drew himself up to his full height and decided to enter this drinking parlor once more. Somewhere in Rio Vista, there were answers to the questions he had yet to think about
asking. Somewhere, perhaps in this saloon, he might just find the reason for his being here of all places.

  For a while, nobody seemed to notice the extra body moving across the fresh sawdust toward the long bar through the acrid cigarette and cigar smoke which hung at shoulder height. Yet, as the man who resembled a living corpse rested his wrists upon the wooden bar top, eyes began to focus on him. Slowly, the room began to fall into a hushed silence as each and every one of the customers noticed the distinctive bounty hunter hovering like a ghost at the end of the bar counter.

  Placing another of his seemingly endless supply of thin cigars between his teeth, Iron Eyes felt the fear within the room touch his face as he struck a match and placed its flame to the end of the weed. Sucking in the strong smoke he moved around the now vacant corner of the bar until he faced the nicotine-stained mirror. Images were blurred, but to Iron Eyes it mattered little; his keen hunter’s vision didn’t miss a thing.

  He lowered his head and allowed his hair to fall over his face. Through its matted tresses, he watched them as they watched him. As he spat an accurate shot of tobacco spit into the gleaming spittoon at his feet beside the brass foot rail, he continued watching the assembled gathering. There were more females here now. Some almost pleasing to look at, he noted. The majority of the men appeared to be locals by their clothing. These men had not ridden along dusty trails into town, they were devoid of grime. They had walked to this place to drink and find women who would do what their wives had once done before morality soured them.

  ‘Whiskey, stranger?’ the fat bartender asked familiarly, placing a glass before the famed bounty hunter.

  Iron Eyes reached beneath one of his saddlebag flaps and pulled out a mixture of coins, some silver and some gold. Looking up at the barkeep he tossed three golden eagle coins onto the bar and grunted, ‘Yep, and drinks for everybody else too, mister.’

  It was a ploy, but Iron Eyes knew it was a smart one. Free drinks always loosened tongues. He wanted to watch these people without being watched too intently himself. The room seemed to come alive with excitement at the relief of knowing the living specter was not after their blood. Taking the bottle from the barman and pouring a glass of the amber nectar, Iron Eyes swiftly swallowed the drink. Before managing to move away from the bar to find a quiet table, a voice rang out over the sound of the people. The words cut through the air like a knife.